Mrs. Chilton glanced at the clock. “Going on an hour, I believe.” She frowned. “Is something wrong, sir?”

“Yes.”

Tobias went back down the steps. He did not bother to hunt for a hackney. He knew the cemetery well. It was not far away, but it was surrounded by a maze of tiny lanes and narrow streets. He would make better time on foot.

Twenty

Sweet Ned took a deep breath and sauntered toward the gates of the graveyard. He wanted to handle this business in a professional manner.

Business. He liked the sound of that. He’d taken a real commission from a real client. He was no longer an ordinary street lad who picked pockets and snatched the odd valuable. As of last night, he was a professional with his own business.

When he’d struck the bargain with the woman, it was as though a magic door had opened, allowing him a tantalizing vision of a new future. It was a truly dazzling scene in which he was the master of his own destiny, successful and prosperous. Respected.

There would be no more dealing with the damned receivers who never gave fair value for the goods he risked his neck to steal. No more skulking about in alleys waiting to rob drunken gentlemen when they stumbled out of the hells and brothels in the wee hours of the morning. No more dodging the Runners. From now on he would only accept commissions from clients who were willing to pay well to, have their dirty work done by an expert.

He’d have to consider how best to advertise his services, he thought as he strolled through the iron gates. Unfortunately, he could not put a notice in the papers. He would have to depend on word of mouth. But that should not be a problem after the news of how well he had carried out his first commission circulated. The woman would likely tell her friends and they would tell others, and in no time at all he would be swamped with commissions.

Too bad his pa had drunk himself to death before he’d had an opportunity to see his son move up in the world.

At the thought of his father lying dead in the stinking alley, a half-empty bottle of gin in one hand, the old rage came back, nearly blinding him. Memories of the beatings made him clench his hand around the handle of the knife. They had grown more frequent and more savage after his ma died. In the end he’d had no choice but to take to the streets.

There were times when the urge to hit someone or something nearly overpowered him. Sometimes he wanted to strike blow after blow until this rush of raw fury evaporated.

But he refused to give in to the fierce anger. He had vowed to himself a long time ago that he would not follow in his father’s drunken footsteps. After today everything would be different. After today word would go out that he was a reliable professional and he would be launched on his new career.

But first he had to fulfill this commission.

He stopped just inside the cemetery gates, trying to ignore the little finger of dread that touched him at the back of his neck. He did not like graveyards. One of his friends, who was doing very nicely for himself robbing graves and selling bodies to the medical schools, had tried to convince him to join his gang of Resurrection Men. He had made some excuse about having bigger plans, but the truth was, he knew he’d never be a success in that line of work. The thought of digging up graves and opening coffins filled him with horror.

He looked quickly around the graveyard, searching for his quarry.

Panic surged in his vitals when he realized that she was nowhere in sight.

Impossible. She had to be here somewhere. He knew this old boneyard. She could not have climbed the high stone walls, and the gates behind him were the only way out. The small church had been closed up for nearly a year, the door kept locked and barred.

The burial vaults, he thought. She must be hiding in one of them.

Yes, that was it. She had realized that he was a threat, and the poor little fool had sought refuge in one of the large crypts. As if he’d let her slip away so easily.

He studied the array of stone vaults sprinkled around the cemetery. Some of them were enormous, built to house several generations of a family’s dead. A small scrap of cloth fluttered on the ground in front of the door of a large crypt on his right.

It looked like a lady’s handkerchief.

She was no doubt shivering in terror inside that dark chamber, alone with all those walled-up skeletons, he thought. He felt a pang of sympathy. He wouldn’t want to be in her shoes. But if she was already trembling with fear, that would make his work all the easier.

At the door of the monument he stooped down to pick up the little bit of embroidered cloth. Just as he’d thought. A fine linen handkerchief. When this was finished he would give it to Jenny.

He opened the door of the crypt and peered into the gloom. A

shudder went through him. This would not have been his choice of a hiding place.

“You in there,” he called. “Come on out now. I’ve got a message for ye

His voice echoed on the stone walls, but nothing stirred inside the crypt. He wondered if she’d fainted dead away from fright.

“Bloody female. You had to go and make this difficult, didn’t you?”

There was no help for it; he’d have to go in and haul her out. He wished he had a candle or a lantern. It was as dark as the Pit in there.

Reluctantly, he moved into the burial vault. The passageway at the entrance opened onto a cramped chamber, lined floor to ceiling with stones engraved with the names of the dead. There was just enough light to make out the edges of two massive, heavily carved coffins in the center of the room. She was no doubt crouched down behind one of them.

He eased deeper into the chamber. Decades of dust stirred at his feet.

Dust.

Belatedly, he glanced down. There was enough light slanting through the open door to see that there were no footprints in the thick dust other than his own.

“Bloody hell.”

He whirled and raced back toward the door. He got there just in time to catch a glimpse of the woman’s green skirts flying out through the cemetery gates.

She’d tricked him. She had dropped her handkerchief in front of this monument and hidden behind one of the others.

He rushed toward the gates. He could outrun her, he promised himself, a sense of desperation pouring through him. He could outrun any fine lady.

He had to outrun her. His future depended on it.

Lavinia fled toward the entrance of the tiny lane, her skirts clutched in both hands. She could hear the man pounding across the graveyard. He would be through the gates in another few seconds.

He was young and strong and fast, and she knew that she could not outrun him for long. Her only hope was to reach the street first and pray that there would be other people around to aid her.

This was, she reflected, one of those times when it would have been extremely helpful to be dressed in trousers instead of a gown. If she escaped the man with the knife, she would definitely make an appointment with Madam Francesca to discuss the matter.

The thud of boots on stone drew closer. She sensed the man reaching for her. She did not dare look back. The place where the lane met the street was not far now.

Dear God, two more strides and she would be safe. Perhaps.

She burst out of the tiny mouth of the lane.

And stumbled straight into the arms of a solidly built man in a large, dark coat and a low-crowned hat. Her first thought was that the villain with the knife had a companion. A fresh wave of fear crashed through her.

She struggled to break free, opening her mouth to scream.

“Lavinia.” Tobias’s strong hands closed around her forearms like steel manacles. “Are you all right? Answer me, Lavinia. Are you hurt?”

“Tobias.” Relief left her limp and breathless. “Thank God. Yes, yes, I’m all right. But there’s a man. With a knife.”

She swung around and saw that her pursuer had stopped just inside the entrance to the lane. He stared at Tobias.

“There he is,” Lavinia said. “I think he followed me here. He waited for Aspasia to leave and then he came toward me with a knife and i…

“ Stay here.” He set her aside and started toward the young man with the blade.

She realized that he was going to try to capture her would-be assailant.

“Tobias, no. Wait. He’s got a knife.”

“He will not have it for long,” Tobias said very softly. He kept moving, swiftly narrowing the distance between himself and the man in the lane.

Lavinia saw panic cross the young man’s face. Whatever he saw in Tobias’s expression had struck terror in him. He was trapped and he knew it.

Alarm swept through her. Cornered creatures were exceedingly dangerous.

Tobias did not seem to notice the knife in the young man’s hand.

He closed in on him with the long, prowling stride of a wolf moving in for the kill.

The man lost his nerve. Blade extended as though it were a talisman that could ward off a demon, he broke into a mad run, slashing wildly at the air. It was clear that he intended to try to rush past Tobias to the freedom of the street.

Tobias sidestepped the knife and grabbed the arm that held it as the villain went flying past him. Using the man’s own momentum, he swung him in an arc that ended abruptly against the nearest stone wall.

The assailant squealed in fear and rage and pain. He crumpled to the pavement. The knife clattered on the stones.

Tobias scooped up the blade. “Sweet Ned, I presume.”